


differ in the outcome

by knightinbrightfeathers



Series: Magevengers [2]
Category: Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Depression, Dysphoria, Gen, Mild Language, Running, Taylor Swift songs, Therapy, Violence, doctor who - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:26:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4578786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinbrightfeathers/pseuds/knightinbrightfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon's lost, and alone, and someone's trying to kill him. More than usual, that is. And then there's the media... At least he has Agatha to snark at him, and the mystery jogger, to, well, to squint at him suspiciously, to be honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	differ in the outcome

When you run, it's hard to breathe. You know this, everyone does. For some people, it's one of the best feelings in the world, the burn of lungs and legs, the strain, the effort, the wind past your ears like flying.

Simon ran, and ran, and ran, legs hardly tiring, lungs hardly tiring, nothing tired except for his mind, his heart. He ran for the moment he stopped and, for a few seconds. breathed through the pain in his chest.

It never lasted.

\-- - --

Sometimes Agatha drove by and picked him up, taking him to debrief or to breakfast, complaining about the smell the whole way to his flat, because she wouldn't sit in public with him if he smelled "twice as bad as a sewer, are you sure it in't a side effect of the magic?" and then they'd go to the cafe around the corner.

She'd ask him questions like, "How was your last mission?" and "Seen anything good lately?" Almost normal questions, to make up for the rest of their lives being insane. At least, to make up for Simon's life. He didn't know what Agatha thought of her life. Maybe Agatha saw super-assassin-spy as a viable career option. She never wanted to talk about it, though, which- fair enough, neither did Simon.

She never told him what she'd been up to, but Simon had a row of souvenirs on his bookshelf from places like Bora Bora or Minsk.

\-- - --

Brightly colored, tightly-fitting uniforms, it turned out, drew the attention of more than angry people with cursed objects and a loose grasp on reality.

"Mage Snow! Mage Snow!" Reporters clustered behind the barrier SWORD had set up, leaning across it and waving microphones.

Simon looked around for the compulsory innocuous-looking agent in sunglasses that occupied every mission and acted as general liaison. Said agent for this mission, Sitwell, just nodded and flicked his hand as if to say "get on with it".

Simon's earpiece crackled and Sitwell said, "Director's orders. Expose you to the press bit by bit."

Simon had already been exposed to the press- he'd seen some rather bizarre articles about him, and a few of those reporters could just give up and g home right now- so this must be for the press's benefit. He squared his shoulders and jogged up to the gaggle with his best wholesome-yet-plucky grin, the one that Agatha said made him look like he was going to scuff a foot in the dirt and made her want to vomit puppies and glitter.

"Mage Snow! Can you tell us what happened? What caused the explosion?" shouted a BBC One reporter.

"There was a man who'd gotten his hands on a drum made of wood from a dryad's tree. The explosion was just sound, but he was causing mayhem. He's been apprehended and secured, and the victims are being treated as we speak." Simon decided not to mention that some of the victims were newly conscious plants, being tended by a combination of botanists and philosophers. For a dryad's wood drum in an experimental greenhouse it could have been a lot worse.

"What do you think of dryad's wood being used for such a purpose?" a man from The Guardian asked.

Simon blinked. "Well, obviously, it hurts a dryad when you take wood from their tree, so I'm against it. I'm also against terrorizing people, so altogether I'm not too happy about it."

"The attacker claimed to have been awakening the spirits of the greenhouse plants on his social media accounts." a prim woman from ITV offered. "Wouldn't dryads support that?"

"You'll have to ask them," Simon said. This was greeted by a wave of laughter and angry questions- didn't he know that dryads were extinct?

"No, I'm afraid not," Simon said. "No one told me." He thought of the oak tree dryad at Watford, old as the school itself and wiser than anyone in it, and kind. "That's terrible."

"Did you know any dryads personally, Mage Snow? Or is that just a general statement?"

"I met a dryad, once," Simon said. "They were very... different, but it felt like a priviledge."

Simon's earpiece crackled again. "That's enough. Very good, now excuse yourself and go," Sitwell said as the reporters flooded him with questions again.

"I'm afraid I'm the wrong person to ask about this kind of thing," Simon said. "Thank you, I need to go now."

"Who is the right person to ask?" someone shouted after him.

Simon paused and turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the young reporter who'd spoken. "I don't know, who killed them?"

"Leave right now, Mage. We are taking off in five," Sitwell ordered. He sounded pissy.

\-- - --

There was one other person who ran the same track Simon did so early in the morning. A black woman, running with her head high, as if she were looking at the sky.

Simon looked up, but it was grey with rainclouds.

\-- - --

"Mage Snow! What happened? Was there really a madman in the loose?"

"Mage Snow! What do you plan on doing to make London safer?"

"Mage Snow! Do you have anything to say about the rise in magical violence since the registration act started?"

The last reporter was even more tenacious than usual, dodging SWORD agents and planting herself next to Simon.

Simon, bleeding a steady trickle from his scalp and still limping from a blow to the knee, stared at the reporter. He'd been chewed out for saying something so political last time. What was the line Sitwell had given him?

"I don't think I'm qualified," he said, and let the medics drag him aside for checkup. By the time he'd sat down, the wound on his scalp had already sealed itself back together.

\-- - --

Running looking up, Simon discovered, made it worse. It just made the air slice through his throat, causing him to tear up.

\-- - --

"You need a PR lesson," Agatha said.

Simon shrieked. This was not in response to Agatha's suggestion, but rather due to the fact that she'd sat herself on a bench that had loomed out of the fog very suddenly. He was almost sure it hadn't been there yesterday.

Agatha raised her eyebrows at him and held up The Bugle, probably for dramatic effect, since she could have just shoved her phone in his face.

 **Mage Snow: Not Qualified?** screamed out at him from the paper. A quote, apparently of him, stood out lower, just above the fold.

"I said this?" Simon took the paper and read over the article. "Property damage" and "control" and "government" came up a lot. "Okay, this is..."

"Out of context?" Agatha shrugged and took the paper back, tucking it into her purse. "Welcome the the 21st century, wunderkind."

"Can't I call them to make them change it?" Simon asked.

"This edition's a lost cause. Anyways, they'd just write about how you're trying to cover it up. Jameson loves making people like us miserable."

"Like us?" Simon asked.

Agatha gestured impatiently. "You know, spandex, tragic backstory, superpowers."

"I'm not a superhero," Simon said, frowning and crossing his arms.

Agatha sighed, leaning back against the bench. "Call it what you will, but people like stories, and superheroes are the best kind."

Simon shook his head sharply and opened his mouth to speak.

"Excuse me, miss." The black woman who always ran looking up jogged up to them.

Simon took in his own stance, obviously angry and looming over Agatha- who, of course, had changed her body language as soon as someone else appeared, and was now smiling sweetly at the strange woman.

"Is this man bothering you?"

Agatha giggled. It would have charmed most people, but Simon knew her and the woman looked unaffected. "Oh no, my brother wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Of course he wouldn't," the woman said.

"And if I was bothering you, you could always taze me," Simon said drily.

"Don't be silly, that's for special occasions. I have FitzSimmons' experimental pepper spray." Agatha turned towards the woman. "Thanks for stopping to check, not many would. We're fine. I was just taking him to breakfast. Coming, Simon?" The hand wrapped around his wrist was tight enough that there was only one possible response.

"Sure," Simon said. He gave the woman an awkward smile. "Have a nice day."

"You too," the woman said, narrowing her eyes at them, and jogged off.

"Let's go, you owe me pancakes," Agatha said cheerily, striding off. Simon kept up with her easily, bending down when she pulled on his shirt so that she could murmur, "She's trained."

"In what?" Simon murmured back

Agatha shrugged. "Krav maga, aikido, who knows? Something defensive, I can't quite make it out." There was frustration in her voice, but she wasn't acting overly calm or chirpy, so it was probably fine. "You should talk to her," she added, in a completely different tone.

And there it was. Simon pulled away. "Aggie, I'm not looking for a relationship."

"Come on, she's cute." Agatha waggled her eyebrows. "Afraid she'll beat you up?"

"Right, like that's a turn off," Simon said thoughtlessly. "I mean- it's not like I like getting beat up, and I like strong people- and, uh, you're really pretty- but I don't like you that way, I swear-"

"Calm down, cabbage kid," Agatha said. "Everyone's attracted to me. It's a weapon, okay? I control it. Close your eyes." Simon closed his eyes. "Open them."

The change that had come over Agatha was total. She was, from top to bottom, an entirely different person. She was dressed the same, had the same features, but somehow she no longer dazzled, no longer drew the eye and demanded attention. She did- something- and was back to her usual self, tugging at her coat and taking his arm.

"Body language is a powerful tool," Agatha said. "And I have others. With the right jacket, I can become invisible, and I'm not talking about one of FitzSimmons' harebrained gadgets." She looked at him shrewdly. "What is it?"

"Can you teach me?" Simon blurted.

Agatha's mask slid down. "No." Then, cheerful, she said, "Let's go for breakfast! I want blueberry pancakes. Is it blueberry season?" she chattered at him, airy and perfectly false, like one of those hologram bookmarks you turned to get different picture. Girl, spy, girl, spy.

Which is which, he wondered.

\-- - --

PR lessons were a real thing. Too real; Micah looked like he was about to faint.

"No," he said, in his American accent. Agatha liked to imitate him, round r's and a lilt that thinned the thick accent into something else. "That would be a terrible idea."

"Telling the truth?" Simon asked.

"Saying it like that."

"But genocide is horrible-"

Micah shook his head. Simon watched in fascination as his yarmulke flapped and almost flew off, saved only be a hair clip. "You don't have to tell me that."

Of course. While Simon had lain underground, the world had discovered the death camps and ghettos of Europe. He'd almost thrown up reading a too-vivid history book.

"If you just shout things, no one will listen," Micah continued. His mouth went wry for a second. "Make it sound good. Make yourself wort listening to."

Simon shrugged. "Sorry, Mr. Schkolnick. It sounds nice, but you're just here to teach me to shut up."

Micah started and a slow grin spread across his face. "My, aren't we paranoid." He waved a hand at Simon's scowl. "It's a good thing, Mr. Snow. I'd be too, if the government owned my copyright."

"They don't, actually,' Simon said, because he'd had Agatha find out for him.

Micah nodded, considering. "Let's make a deal. I'll teach you some rhetoric tricks- nothing fancy, just a few useful things- and in return, you don't do anything stupid. I'd still like to get paid."

Simon stuck out his hand. "Shake on it." They shook, and Simon added, "Also, define stupid."

"I imagine I'll know it when I see it on national television," Micah said, with the air of one who only slightly regrets introducing cats to an automatic paw-operated can opener.

\-- - --

It was a nice morning, finally warming up (although, in true London fashion, the air smelled of smoke and plastic. Simon, who would die happy if he never had the smell of wet earth and green things in his nose ever again, approved.) There were even a few cars, so Simon felt comfortable enough to take Agatha's advice.

Just in case, though, he slowed down as he passed by the woman, who was jogging steadily along, her eyes firmly fixed on the blue-and-white above. "On your left," he called out.

She whipped her head around and stared at him, eyebrows raised.

"Didn't want to startle you," Simon said.

"Thanks," she said.

\-- - --

"If you'd like my opinion on serious topics," Simon told the gathered reporters, who were staring up at him in a mixture of confusion and anger and, he was discomfited to see, lust, "I'm much cleverer when I'm not bleeding from the shoulder." His uniform had turned a deep reed around the wound, which was already sealing itself shut under the straps of his uniform. The fabric was hanging around his elbow, courtesy of someone's crazed attempt at creating animated swords. The magic was annoying; the singing had been disconcerting.

Simon waited patiently. When none of the reporters spoke, he smiled (it was more of a grimace. Feeling his arm knitting itself together was gross) and turned away.

"Wait," someone said, shrill. Simon turned back and met the eyes of a girl pushing herself to the front of the crowd of people in casual office wear. The sides of her head were shaved, and she was wearing bright yellow sneakers and a look of disbelief, as if she couldn't believe her own daring. She held up her phone. "You won't answer serious questions?"

Simon nodded.

"So you'll answer not-serious questions? Because, I have a question. I mean, it's not serious, but it's not, like, not serious?" Her eyes were open as far as they'd go.

Simon nodded again. "Yeah, okay."

"So, like, as one British icon about another..." The girl bit her lip. "Who's your favorite Doctor?"

The reporter next to her snorted. Simon leaned forward and, speaking directly into her phone, said mildly, "Christopher Eccleston."

"You're nuts, mate!" came from the street, but the girl only nodded enthusiastically. "I know,, right?"

"What's your favorite episode in his era?" one of the reporters ventured.

"The Doctor Dances," Simon said. "Definitely."

"Rose is, like, the best companion," the girl said avidly, and started a clamoring that exceeded any of Simon's previous encounters with the press.

\-- - --

"On your left," Simon said.

"Uh huh," the woman said. "Sure."

"Why not?" Simon slowed, running in place until she caught up.

"I can smell the Tory from here," she said, still looking up and jogging past him.

Simon ran on, only slowing enough to shout, "Thatcher was a bad Prime Minister!" as he passed by again.

"Damn right!"

\-- - --

"I cannot deal with this." Micah rested hi head on his desk and bonked it gently. "I. Can't. Do. This."

"Come on, it's not that bad," Simon said, struggling not to laugh.

"This is literally too British for me to handle, what the fuck,," Micah groaned. "If it was politics, I could do this. Antagonism towards the French, sure, why not, everyone hates them anyways. Opinions about cooking everything until it's the same color as the beer, the shitty weather, sailing off in a huge fruit with supersized bugs, anything else other than-"

"Supersized bugs?" Simon asked.

"-Doctor Who," Micah finished, ignoring Simon in favor of hitting his head against the desk. "Why did I take this job. Why. Why. Why."

"Are you going to explain about the fruit and bugs thing, or-"

Micah paused in his forehead bruising. His yarmulke dangled precariously. "Go read Roald Dahl," he said, pointing at Simon.

"Now?"

"Yes, now, let me suffer in peace," Micah moaned.

Simon slid a copy of the Telegraph between his forehead and the desk on his way out.

"Thanks," Micah said," resuming his headdesking routine.

\-- - --

"On your left!"

Simon screamed. "What the fuck, Agatha!"

"Gotcha!"

"Hecate and Merlin." Simon pressed a hand to his heart, and the woman (Simon had taken to calling her Sky Lady in his head, which Baz would have mocked forever) passed by. For once she wasn't looking up. She was laughing her head off.

"I hate you," Simon told Agatha.

"She's cute," Agatha said, drawing the second word out, kyoo-oot.

"Ask her out, then," Simon said, and started running again. "Dick."

"I heard that!" Agatha yelled after him.

"Good!" he yelled back. Sky Lady was still laughing her head off when he zoomed past her.

\-- - --

Agatha had the worst taste in mission music. She was singing "Mean" loudly in his earpiece. Simon had nothing against Taylor Swift, but country was an evil he wouldn't tolerate.

"Please stop," he gritted out, punching someone in the face. It felt like hitting a wall. Every- well, henchman was kind of a rude term, but it applied itself- in the building was wearing some kind of force field, weakest in the face but still pretty near indestructible.

"I'll sing something else," Agatha conceded.

"Thank fuck-"

"If you sing along." He could practically hear the smirk. "And it has to be Taylor Swift."

"Why?" A henchperson pulled a gun on him, clumsily. He chopped it in two with the Sword.

"Don't you like angry blondes, Simon?" Agatha started another song. "State the obvious, I didn't get my perfect fan-ta-seee-"

"I stay out too late, got nothing in my brain," Simon began, loudly, and the henchpeople gave him odd looks until he shoved one and they toppled like dominoes.

(Later he'd find out that Agatha had, at some point, changed his ringtone to "Bad Blood".)

The fight ended when the force fields all failed at the same time. Simon accidentally broke a henchperson's arm.

"Sorry, he said, automatically.

"'s all right," the person didn't say. Rude. Instead, they howled, and the rest of it was just scowling until they all gave themselves up.

"This doesn't make sense," Agatha said, rubbing her split and bandaged knuckles. "It's so stupid."

"Pretty much," Simon agreed. "You'd think, if someone went to the bother of inventing all this fancy force field armor, they'd make it last longer."

"One hour," Agatha said. "That's how long the force fields last."

"How do you know that's what made them stop?" Simon asked.

"Because I checked," Agatha said. She reached into a pouch on her belt and showed him two small batteries. "See?"

Simon took them from her. They looked completely normal. "How many in each force field thingy?"

"Two," Agatha said. "And I took one of the force field generators apart-"

"Agatha," Simon said reprovingly, "that could have been dangerous."

"Whatever, it doesn't matter-"

"Of course it does-"

" _Listen_ ," Agatha said. "These things are like a kid's science project. Like a build-your-own-radio kit. They shouldn't even work."

"I don't understand-" Simon began, and someone screamed.

It was one of the henchpeople. They were shaking their head, babbling, and managed to free themselves from the grasp of the agent holding them and turn to look in Simon's direction.

"Run," they managed.

Simon stared for a second at the obedient line of henchmen and the pile of force field generators. "Everybody out!" he shouted. Agatha joined him, ushering bewildered Agents away from the enemy soldiers and equipment. "Come on, move it people, this is not a drill-" and then the henchmen moved as one-

Simon held up the Mage's Sword.

The building exploded.

\-- - --

"It doesn't make sense," Agatha said, as they watched the destruction from inside the spell-bubble Simon had cast. "And how did they even cast the explosion? Did anyone see?"

"They all pressed a hand to their hearts," Agent Briggs ventured.

"Why?" someone asked.

Agatha pursed her lips.

An arm slapped against the bubble. Blood sprayed, and something poked out of the flesh.

"Is that...?" Simon stared in horror at the wiring laced through the detached, mutilated arm.

"Human detonation button," Agatha said colorlessly. Someone threw up.

Simon adjusted the spell, making the bubble opaque, but the image was seared into his brain. "Has anyone paged HQ yet?"

"I'll do it," said the agent next to him, Chang. She was pale. "Give me something else to think about."

Simon nodded. "Someone help-" he looked around at the vomiting agent. "-Agent Weiss, please."

"On it," said the agent next to Weiss. "Come on, Rob, let's clean up. I've got mediwipes."

"The rest of you, settle down. We've got a bit of a wait until extraction arrives. Anyone need medical treatment? Come on, you're no use if you pass out." A few hands went up. Simon nodded to the field medics. "Fitzpatrick, Karim."

"On it, Mage Snow."

"Good job," Agatha said, as everyone split into little groups. "How long can you hold the spell?"

"An hour," Simon muttered, and Agatha smiled unpleasantly.

"Triple A batteries," she said. "And a fistful of spare parts."

"And three dozen dead people," Simon reminded her. The Sword hung by his side, heavy and draining.

"You don't have to pay them if they're dead," Agatha said. "And besides..."

"Besides what?"

But Agatha clammed up until the evac team arrived.

\-- - --

"On your left," Simon called.

"You're suh a weirdo!"

"Thanks! I guess!"

\-- - --

On the second lap:

"On your left."

"Asshole."

"No, thank you."

\-- - --

On the fourth lap:

"On your-"

"Left, yeah, yeah."

"Should I be more original?"

"No!" she laughed. "You're bad enough as it is!"

\-- - --

"On your left."

"Nope." Sky Lady dropped onto a bench. "I've had enough."

"You'll cramp if you just stop," Simon said worriedly, skidding to a halt and walking back to stand in front of her.

"And you won't." It wasn't a question. She looked up at him shrewdly, breathing hard. For the first time, Simon could see that she had freckles to go with her reddish-brown hair, almost invisible against her dark skin.

"Of course I do," Simon said. "Come on, we can stretch together." He offered her a hand, suddenly feeling shy.

"I have a feeling your cool down exercises will kill me." She took his hand anyways. "Penelope Bunce."

"Simon Snow."

Penelope cocked her head. "No, really?"

"It's too early for sarcasm," Simon complained.

"Man, you just lapped me six times, and I was flat out running. You do not get to whine." She smiled, warm. "You know, just because you can break the sound barrier, doesn't mean you have to put all us regular people to shame."

Simon nodded. He didn't say _when I run sometimes he's running next to me and it's horrible but at least he's there_ or _if I'm fast enough I might manage to leave everything behind_ or _I wish it was harder, I wish it hurt more, I wish I could get more relief at the end_. "Uh, sorry?"

Penelope shook her head. "Nah, don't worry about it." She inspected his face, somehow not unpleasant even though it felt as if she could see right through him. "If you don't mind me saying-"

A car rolled up, inconspicuous and black, and Agatha called out, "Scuse me, miss, could you point me towards the botanic gardens? I'm looking for a head of cabbage."

"Very funny," Simon called. "Sorry, I have to-"

"Of course. Just..." Penelope patted her leg as if looking for something, and the air by her hip. "Oh, never mind. See you tomorrow, I suppose."

"It was nice to meet you," Simon said.

"Meet me. Sure, you could call it that," Penelope said, and Simon decided that he liked her very much.

\-- - --

"You know you're not actually amusing," he told Agatha in the car.

"Sure, apple cake, keep telling yourself that."

"Apple cake?" They didn't take the turn left to Muffin to See Here Cafe, Simon noticed.

"Sweetcheeks. Fluffypoo." Agatha donned sunglasses, probably just for the heck of it. "Cuddlebuns."

"I'm gonna puke," Simon warned, and Agatha grinned. "What's the mission?"

Agatha nodded approvingly. "It's on a boat."

"A boat?"

"Heavens, yes, a boat, don't make me repeat myself." That was prickly pre-mission Agatha. "Heads up before we reach HQ."

"What is it?" Simon's mind flashed to their last, disastrous mission. "Human bombs again?"

"Yes. No." Agatha neatly drove around an electric car. "If I do something odd, pretend you have no idea what I'm doing."

"I don't." Simon watched Agatha for a clue, but her expression remained neutral. "Odd how?"

"Just play along," Agatha said.

\-- - --

"Is it just me, or are they trying to kill me more than usual?" Simon panted. Someone had tasered him, and now he was surrounded by mooks in black uniforms. What wouldn't he give for a long-distance projectile weapon. Or a stinkbomb.

What wouldn't he give for bad guys who didn't have magic dampers-

"Stab them already and get your arse over here, Snow." Agatha didn't sound out of breath, but she did sound suspiciously cutesy. "Whoops, man overboard."

"Ours or theirs?" Simon, frustrated, broke the male code of conduct and kicked one of the mooks in the crotch. He keened and dropped to the floor.

"That's so cute, you think it matters."

Simon quickly dropped the other two mooks, apologizing silently as they screamed. "Who is it, Agatha?"

"Civilian. One of the rescue boats got him. Control room, on the double."

"Got it." Simon dashed across the ship, half-remembered schematics guiding him to the opposite side of the ship. He passed a clump of SWORD agents dispatching an equally sized clump of mooks, slowed down, and decided against it. _Play along._ They were doing okay. "Crotch is the weak spot!" he shouted.

"Have a heart, sir," someone shouted back.

Agatha began a creepy flirtation with someone in Simon's ear.

"Morgana's pants, do you ever stop," Simon muttered. A crash from his right made him spin, just in time to spot Agatha through the control room windows, ducking to avoid the chair that hit the wall over her shoulder.

"So good of you to come," Agatha said when he barged into the control room. "Do your thing."

"'s not my thing," Simon said, but he beat up the rather persistent pair of mooks for her while she fiddled around with the computers.

"How many people are on this ship?" Simon gasped, as an exceptionally skilled mook ran in and kicked him in the kneecap with pinpoint precision. "Ow, shitfuck."

"This is Agent Wellbelove to Command 1, query objective complete." A pause, punctuated by a thud as a mook hit the floor. "No more civilians. Come on, you big baby, let's get out."

"All SWORD agents clear?" Simon spared a moment to switch to the general frequency in his earpiece.

"Affirmative," crackled through.

"We're coming out. Agent Wellbelove!" They hurtled towards a window, Simon catching Agatha at the last minute, tucking himself into a ball around her. They hit the water with a tremendous splash.

"Nice," Agatha said, when they could both breathe again.

\-- - --

He went running the next day even tough it hurt like buggery. Super-fast healing wasn't always enough, and the medics had yelled at bloody murder at him for being stupid. "You broke your wrist," "you could have snapped your spine," "accelerated healing doesn't help when you're dead," et cetera.

"Nice cast," Penelope said, when she was done with your stretches. "Did you hurt your hand punching bad guys?"

Simon shook his head. "Jumped out of a boat, hit the water wrong."

Penelope raised her eyebrows. "That sounds confidential."

"Maybe. Are you going to tell anyone?"

"No. It's my job to keep secrets. What's one more?"

Simon looked at her oddly. "Secret keeper? That's a job?"

Penelope laughed. "It pays the bills. No, I work at the VA. I'm a counselor."

"Oh. That's good work."

"So's yours," Penelope countered. She reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt and offered him a card. "Here." It said P. Bunce, VA Counselor.

Simon looked at it, then at her. "The VA's for soldiers."

"Which you are."

"But I'm not. Or I'm still in service, or something... Wouldn't that kind of defeat the point?"

Penelope looked determined. "How old were you when you destroyed the Humdrum?"

Simon didn't answer. She already knew. Everyone did. He took the card.

"I do group at four on Tuesdays and eleven on Fridays," Penelope said. "You don't have to talk. You could come to someone else's, even."

"Thanks," Simon mumbled. "I'll just- go."

"Bye," Penelope said quietly.

\-- - --

"What the actual everloving fuck," Agatha said.

"Tell us how you really feel," Simon bit out, slicing through an enormous tail. The Sword got stuck halfway through, and Simon wrenched it out.

" _Bajingan_ snakes," Agatha spat. For once, they were fighting side by side. "Why would anyone make _cac_ snakes with stone scales? Why?"

"Metal, too," Simon said. A second chop sliced through the snake completely, but it didn't die. Instead, it fizzled.

"What?" Agatha glared at the snake's insides. " _What_ ," she hissed as the snake lunged forward and bit Simon.

"Also, they're venomous," Simon said, and the world faded to black.

\-- - --

The snake venom didn't kill Simon, but it made him wish it had. The only good part of the whole experience was not having to turn in a mission report. Director Fury was nice that way.

He made it to the Friday group therapy session, slipping in just before it started and sitting in the back. No one stared. Possibly huge, muscular young men in hoodies were a normal occurrence here.

"Everyone settle down," Penelope said from the front of the room. "Morning, people. I'm glad to see so many of you. For any newcomers, my name is Penelope, and I'm the counselor. Last time we talked about decision making, and we said we'd see what affects our decisions. Does anyone want to tell us about their week?"

A man in the front row raised his hand. "Carol?" Or not.

The meeting continued like that, people talking about their own experiences and offering advice. Not everybody spoke, but everyone who wanted to got a turn, and Penelope pitched in often.

A little past twelve thirty, Penelope glanced at her watch and said, "All right, that's us for today. Remember, for next week, make a list of decisions you stalled on or avoided making. See you then." The room gradually emptied, a few people lingering to talk with Penelope or each other, until it was only Penelope, rubbing her eyes, and Simon, sitting quietly.

Penelope got up and walked over to the refreshment table, stacking cups and wiping down the plastic tablecloth. Simon walked over to her, and her head shot up.

"Can I help?" Simon asked.

"Hi. Yeah, that would be great." Simon screwed the lid onto the coffee jar. "I didn't see you."

"I was in the back." Simon dropped a plastic spoon into the trashcan. "I was, um, in the hospital this week. I only got out last night."

"Jump out of another boat?" Penelope asked, tone light. "Don't worry, you don't have to tell me."

"Giant mechanical snake bite," Simon said.

"Your life is so..." Penelope shook her head. "Like a superhero comic. Batman."

"Broody?" Simon helped her lower the water urn to the floor.

"Superman, then. The Flash."

"I'm not a superhero," Simon told her.

"I didn't say you were." Penelope wiped down the cloth one last time and folded it. "Collapse the table, please? You have to pull out the red things and kind of press down. Careful with your fingers."

Simon followed the instructions with approximate success. "Should I lean it up against the wall?"

"Yeah, back of the room." Penelope put the drink things and the tablecloth into a cupboard. "Thank you."

Simon shrugged. "No problem." _Say 'you're welcome' like a civilized person_ , Baz chided, seventy years ago. "You're welcome."

"So, are we just chatting? Cause that's fine, you know," Penelope added when Simon rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "We can do that. We could go get coffee, or just sit somewhere, whatever you want."

"Um, maybe not coffee. I don't want to, you know." Simon made a face. "Talk in public. About... feelings and stuff."

Penelope gave him an uninterpretable look. "O-kay. No feeling in public."

"Is there somewhere we can sit in here?" Simon asked. "Do you have an office or something?"

"Is this a therapy session?" Penelope asked carefully.

"No." Simon blinked rapidly. "Yes. I don't know."

Penelope nodded, pensive. "My office is on the second floor."

She'd just shown him in when a blonde woman came running up. "Pen, can I talk to you for a minute? Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Can you wait a little, Simon?" Penelope asked. When he nodded, she said, "Okay, make yourself comfortable."

"That Colonel guy called again. Why did you have to give him my number?"

"You're good at dealing with army types, Sharon. Besides, you offered-"

Simon shut the door quietly, blocking out the rest of the conversation.

Penelope's office was tiny, a broom closet of a room. Sunlight filtered in through a high window. There was a desk and two chairs, but the desk was under the window, against the wall, and the chairs dominated the room, separated by a little round rug. There was a corkboard crowded with photos and flyers and notes, and on the wall without window, corkboard, or door hung a painting of a bird's nest with a rather blobby robin.

Simon drifted towards the corkboard. There were photos of a few people he thought he'd seen at the group session. Others were obviously of family occasions, Penelope surrounded by people with her hair, her nose, her smile. One of a pretty woman with dreadlocks hugging Penelope, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Another, Penelope standing between two men in uniform, dressed up herself, smiling tiredly at the camera. The three of them at a bar, one of the men toasting someone out of frame. The blonde he'd called Sharon making a goofy face over Penelope's shoulder. A child with short, wild curls riding on Penelope's back. It was a full life, and Simon ached with loneliness. Even when he'd had Baz, he'd never had family. He'd never even had a future apart from defeating the Humdrum. Now what?

The door opened. "Hey," Penelope said. "Sorry for keeping you waiting."

"It's fine." Simon turned to face her. "I couldn't help but overhear..."

"What?" Penelope asked. She looked troubled.

"If some bloke's giving you a hard time, I can scare him off for you."

Penelope's expression cleared. "Oh, no, it's nothing like that. It's a job offer."

"They have counselors in the army?"

"Yeah. Wanna sit?" Penelope didn't wait for an answer, merely sat herself and gestured until he did the same. "How did you like group?"

"It was interesting." Simon shrugged.

Penelope nodded. "But it's not something you want to do."

"Not really? I mean, all those people, sharing their lives... I don't want to do that. I _can't_ do that. I can't give what they're giving."

"You don't have to share," Penelope said.

"Still. It feels wrong, kind of. Unfair."

Penelope nodded again. "I can understand that. Do you like my board?" At Simon's bewildered expression, she said, "You were looking at it when I came in."

"I like the photos. Is the toddler yours?"

Penelope giggled. "She's my niece. I don't have kids."

"Oh. I thought maybe she was yours, with the lady with the dreadlocks."

"She's an ex. We parted on amicable terms." Penelope raised an eyebrow. "I must say, though, I'm impressed at the assumption. I expected someone from the forties would be more..."

"Homophobic?"

Penelope made an apologetic face.

"No. It's nice to be able to assume, instead of, well, assuming the other way,, I guess."

"So..." Penelope cocked her head thoughtfully. "You're not here because of a big sexuality crisis, I suppose."

"I had my crisis in the thirties," Simon said wryly.

"So why are you here?"

Simon swallowed. He didn't know what to say to this woman, with her kind eyes and humor and the photos of her family on the wall, the neat desk with sunshine spilling over it instead of paper. He looked down at his feet, too big against the flower patterned carpet, framed by knees jutting up, as if he were a normal-sized adult in a child's chair. As if he were an adult.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but I can't help unless I know what's wrong." Penelope's voice was soft, gentle, carefully tiptoeing around wounds that shouldn't even be there.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm fine," Simon told the carpet. "I'm alive, when I didn't think I'd survive the Humdrum, and I'm not poor anymore, and i know who my parents were. That's all I ever wanted when I was nineteen."

"When I was nineteen I wanted to be a pilot," Penelope said, and Simon snorted. "Hey, it was a nice dream."

"Nineteen was last year for me," Simon said. Penelope looked him up and down. "I know, I don't look it. I grew. Magic."

"Does it bother you?"

Simon smiled bitterly. He was crying, he realized, like he had cried in the SWORD archives in the dust with Agatha awkwardly patting his arm. "I'm a 20 year old in the body of a 27 year old, seventy years into the future, and the only person I ever loved is dead. I'm lost, and alone, with no purpose, and my life is insane. And also someone is possibly trying to kill me. I mean really having a go at it." He dried his face on his sleeve. "I just thought of that. I think Agatha figured it out already."

"Agatha is...?" Penelope prompted.

"Um, you've met her? The blonde? She's not really my sister, she's my friend. We work together."

"Fighting crime," Penelope said.

"'m not fucking Batman," Simon muttered. "Uh, sorry. For swearing."

"It's all right." Penelope gave him a small smile. "Sounds to me like you're not alone. You have a friend." Her expression grew serious. "Look, Simon. This is a good start- coming to therapy, admitting something is wrong- but I'm not sure I'm qualified for this level of counseling. I don't have a university degree in psychology. I'm not a therapist. I also don't have the kind of security clearance I'd need to give you proper care. You should probably see a real therapist."

"I don't want to. Look, SWORD has fucked with my life enough as it is. If I go to a therapist with clearance, they'll get involved, and it'll end up as a game of Diagnose the Magic Man. Can't we do this?"

Penelope frowned. "You have to promise me that you'll stick with it. No using your job as an excuse to skip sessions. You can't come, you call, and we reschedule."

"I promise."

"And you have to be honest with me. No state secrets, but no lying because you think you _should_ be fine. That's not useful."

"I promise."

"And if it's not effective, you have to tell me."

"I promise."

"And you need to bring a squid to our sessions."

Simon blinked. "Is it for some kind of animal therapy?"

"Nah, I was just checking to see if you were actually listening." Penelope beamed at him. "Are Wednesdays good?"

\-- - --

_"Cause baby now we've got bad blood, you know it used to be mad love-"_

Simon reached over to his nightstand, fumbling for his phone. "Lo?"

"Read the texts I sent you," Agatha said.

"Agatha, it's four in the morning."

"Is it? I just had lunch, ergo, it isn't."

"Yeah, maybe in fuckin', Peru or something it's lunch time, but here in England it's bloody early." Neverthless, Simon put Agatha on speaker and checked his texts. "Wha- these are gibberish."

"No, they're not." Agatha sighed. "Simon, are you using the passcode I sent you?"

"Oh." Apparently, Agatha felt the need to send him encrypted texts. Simon poked at the screen halfheartedly until it yielded results. "Okay, I got it, but it's still not telling me anything."

"It's a pattern," Agatha said.

Simon groaned. "Four in the morning."

"Fine, _ahabal_. Just look at the grey circle. See? It's everywhere. Like a logo, or a watermark."

"It's just a circle. Empty. Circle," Simon emphasized. "You're paranoid."

"Fuck you. Remember the jinxed preschool?"

"Uh-huh..."

"There was a kid's drawing, just a bunch of scribbles-"

By now Simon was a bit more awake. He dredged up the memory. "With a grey circle drawn over the scribbles. What does this mean? What do you want me to do?"

"Just be careful. Hey, how's it going with Penelope?"

"How do you even- never mind. You do know it's only been three times, right?"

"How was it?"

Simon thought of the first session, when he'd started yelling, and the second, when he'd gone in circles. "Hard."

"I'm proud of you, Simon."'

Simon smiled. "Can I go to sleep now?"

"Yes, you ungrateful swine. You can go to sleep."

\-- - --

Penelope Bunce was not given to superstition. In a world of magic and science, nearly everything could be explained, and if it couldn't be explained, it was not-explained in such a way as to make that even better.

However, when Simon's name flashed on her phone, she couldn't help but feel something was very wrong.

"Hello?"

"Penelope, hi." Simon sounded out of breath, and confused, and scared. "Sorry, I won't be able to make it today." A pause. "Possibly not at all this week, actually."

Penelope frowned. "Tell me the truth, Simon. Are you ditching because you think the therapy's going badly?"

"No, it's just- something's come up- crap." Simon made a distressed noise. "I can't tell you, I- I'll make sure you get some kind of message later." There was noise like wind and cars. "Sorry, I need to go."

"What? Simon, what's going-" The line went dead.

Penelope set her phone in her lap. This moment, she felt, was monumental. She picked up her book, opened it, set it down.

"Oh, bugger," she said.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Some Kind of Joke by Awolnation.


End file.
